


call and response

by elizabethelizabeth



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Gentle Kissing, Kissing, M/M, Post-Canon, Romantic Fluff, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:28:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22475623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethelizabeth/pseuds/elizabethelizabeth
Summary: “And when did you know you loved me?” Aziraphale asks because it’s his turn.A game of reciprocity; call and response.in a quiet bedroom, words can be given the reverence they deserve.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 51
Kudos: 179
Collections: Shinbi34's Recommendations





	call and response

**Author's Note:**

> only half of this was beta read (by dragon_with_a_teacup). guess which half.

“Tell me when.”

“Darling, you know when. And you  _ could  _ ask nicely.”

“You don’t want me to ask nicely. I  _ know  _ you.” When Crowley emphasizes his words, he pretends to sound like Aziraphale: southern and posh and lilting on the high vowels, and he accomplishes this not well at all. Of course, his face is also mushed comfortably and completely against Aziraphale’s stomach, which tends to impede one’s impersonation abilities. “You  _ like  _ it when I’m naughty.”

“Hush,” Aziraphale says, neither arguing or conceding to Crowley’s point. “You’ll need to clarify the question, my dear.”

Crowley adjusts, giving himself an uninhibited view up Aziraphale’s torso and towards his lamplight-haloed face. Sensitively shadowed and so soft, Crowley indulges in simply looking for a moment.

Crowley marvels at the freedom he possesses to look as much as he wants. So many years—in fact, all of the years that had ever existed up until the most recent failed Armageddon—were spent with his eyes turned away or covered. He relied on covert glances and tracked movement, but never the unabashed gazing he longed for.

He can look his fill, now. He does, unashamed and adoringly.

Because Aziraphale is fascinating to look at. His eyes change color depending on whims and moods, and it must be the angelic nature because Crowley’s fairly certain no human is capable of it. There are laughter lines in the corners of his eyes. His lips curl so easily and effortlessly into smiles these days, and Crowley loves being the cause. His nose deserves no less than four and a half epic poems written about it, but there isn’t a poet alive or dead that Crowley would trust to give it justice. Perfection is indescribable, after all. She said so Herself. It doesn’t stop Crowley from trying; it’s in his nature. Aziraphale is incomparable. The softest bed or the plushest chair or the fluffiest afghan cannot compare to the comfort of his body. Cloud and candyfloss and cotton. Carnations, white, canonizing pure love. Calla lilies for purity. Chrysanthemums for loyalty.

He’s planted all of these in his garden. Aziraphale looks at the spread of flora and gets a look, sometimes, like he knows exactly what all of it means. The carnations are nestled close to anemones for the forsaken; the calla lilies, despite their trepidation of the weather, thrive when they’re next to delphiniums, given for ardent attachment; chrysanthemums will grow anywhere, the stubborn bastards, but they enjoy surviving next to the strength of snapdragons. Aziraphale gets a look, sometimes, like he knows the meanings of Crowley’s garden not with study, but just because he knows Crowley.

Aziraphale looks at Crowley the same way Crowley looks at him. It’s mortifying. It’s wonderful.

“Tell me when you knew you loved me?”

Crowley will sink his claws into clarification if he has to. Aziraphale doesn’t mind the sting; he doesn’t even feel it. He might even like it.

“London and France and Rome and Eden.”

Question and answer; give and take.

“And when did you know you loved me?” Aziraphale asks because it’s his turn.

A game of reciprocity; call and response.

“Wine and crepes and oysters and apples.”

Their love is a place and their love is an experience.

“What brought that on, beautiful?”

One of these days, Crowley will find out just how likely discorporation from embarrassment is. He feels sappy and soppy and  _ soft _ . And nice to boot, the worst of all the lot. By all rights and by his nature, he should hate the pet names and their hinted meanings of niceness and loveliness. He doesn’t, though. Not in the least. Crowley blushes and hides his face because he likes the way Aziraphale’s fingers feel under his chin, tilting until their gazes meet.

Crowley smile is all sorts of sentimental. “Jus’ like hearing you say it s’all.”

“I love you.”

“Oh, I like when you say that, too.”

“Won’t you say it back?”

Crowley knows why Aziraphale asks. Aziraphale likes his whims to be indulged, and Crowley has all the time in the world to accommodate him now.

Crowley sits up slowly so he can enjoy the slide of his body against Aziraphale’s. He will never stop being slightly serpentine. 

Kneeling in supplication on blue silk sheets, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s face in his hands and adds the softness under his fingertips as another thing to marvel at. The blush that heats his hands should be its own watercolor palette and paint every picture. “Aziraphale.” He kisses the blonde hair at his temple.

“Angel.” Crowley will worship the tilt of Aziraphale’s head as he seeks out Crowley’s touch.

“Sssweetheart.” Crowley will savor the shiver the sibilance brings to Aziraphale’s shoulders.

“I love you.”

The words are barely out of Crowley’s mouth before he is being kissed ardently and arrantly. Their kissing with never stop being a molten, heat-laden thing; headrush and lightness. Crowley moans into Aziraphale’s mouth and Aziraphale answers in kind. Gooseflesh rises in the wake of Aziraphale’s nails on Crowley’s scalp. Crowley murmurs benedictions and prayers and  _ angel, angel, angel,  _ but has to interrupt himself. “I love you, Aziraphale. I have loved you and followed you and trusted you. You drive me mad. I love you,” and because Crowley can never resist a chance at sacrilege, he adds “ ‘Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to depart from thee: for whither thou goest, I will go: and where thou dwellest, I will dwell.’”

“Stay,” is the only response Aziraphale can manage. He presses Crowley closer, by his waist and his hair. Aziraphale, being present at the inception of language, should not be so taken with words as he is. He should not be taken with a demon, either. Aziraphale is nothing if not a conundrum: exceptional and fascinating. “God, but I love you. Adore you.”

“Tell me again.” Crowley wraps his arms around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Tell me forever.”

Aziraphale does. Crowley answers. 

**Author's Note:**

> wow I finally got Religious Quotes and Floral Significance into a Good Omens fic!


End file.
